


In a Heartbeat

by NamelesslyNightlock



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Desperation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fear, Feral Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Forgiveness, Happy Ending, Hurt Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani Waxes Poetic About Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani and Nicky | Nicolò di Genova are in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Canon, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Regret, Romantic Fluff, Self-Sacrifice, Self-Worth Issues, Soft Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Swordfighting, Swords, Temporary Character Death, Worried Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: When the sword sunk deep into Yusuf’s gut, it was Nicolò who screamed.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 38
Kudos: 459





	In a Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be for one of the hug prompts I've been doing, but there was no way it was going to stay under my word limit so I just let it run free. Oh well, it was fun. Hope you enjoy!

When the sword sunk deep into Yusuf’s gut, it was Nicolò who screamed. 

It wasn’t just that he knew how such a wound would feel, that he knew the horror of the split moment of numb shock before the pain set in. Nor was it just that he _knew_ the pain, that he held in his mind many memories of just how debilitating and agonising a stomach wound could be, the slick feeling of your insides slipping against your hands as you tried to desperately, hopelessly keep them where they were supposed to be. 

No.

The thing that cut Nicolò right to his very soul was the fact that it was _Yusuf_ who had been hurt—

Especially when the blow had been meant for Nicolò. 

They’d been setting up their camp near a rare stream when they’d been joined by a band of apparent mercenaries—or rather, Yusuf had, as Nicolò had been watering the horses at the time. The men had spoken civilly with Yusuf, even pleasantly so, and Nicolò had smiled upon returning. But upon seeing _him_ , the five men had drawn their swords. 

Nicolò could hardly blame them. Wearing Arab dress or not, Nicolò was still easily recognisable as what Yusuf would call a Frank. He didn’t know where these men had been, or what they might have seen, but he would be willing to bet that they had witnessed some of the horrors perpetrated by the Crusade Nicolò had once been part of. He and Yusuf had left before the fall of the city—but he’d heard the stories. And although he’d killed Yusuf far more times than he’d killed any others combined… it was his rageful, _mindless_ attacks on Yusuf which shamed him more than any. 

As such, when the mercenaries approached he didn’t reach for his own sword, despite the fact that it was still attached to his hip. From their perspective they were hardly wrong in their assessment that he deserved to be slain, and it was not like he would not awaken from any attack. They weren’t to know that he did not mean them harm—

At least, not until Yusuf leapt between his acceptance and the path of a wicked-sharp blade. Not until that blade pierced Yusuf’s flesh and he fell to the ground with a groan, the soft sound escaping his lips near gently and becoming lost in the sound of Nicolò’s agonised _scream._

He hadn’t reached for it before, but his blade was in his hand in a moment, swinging in a sure arc before the thought of action had even reached his mind. It sliced the mercenary’s throat with little resistance, the weight of it enough to cut through muscle and sinew, the tip glancing across bone. Blood spurted from the wound, a thick waterfall of red—and the man dropped first to his knees and then to the ground, his empty hands not even making it to his throat before his head was hitting the dirt. 

Nicolò did not even flinch. 

There were five men still standing, four living mercenaries and he. Yusuf’s corpse was behind him now, his attacker’s sword still in his stomach. Nicolò didn’t turn to look, but he could picture the scene, having seen it so many times before—Yusuf’s brown eyes staring emptily at the sky, his cheeks pale and ashen, his lips pulled open with his last breath. 

He didn’t want to see such a thing again. 

He kept his gaze on the advancing men, hearing their spitting curses and angry taunts. Nicolò’s Arabic left much to be desired, and coupled with their anger he could barely understand a single word they said. But both their tone and the lift of their swords were unmistakable, and he adjusted his own grip as he waited.

He, too, could have advanced. But he wasn’t about to leave Yusuf. 

They came at him with angry shouts, their rage etched clearly beneath their beards. Nicolò lifted his sword to block a blow before delivering one himself, darting his blade below another with a quick jab. One man cried out, and fell to a knee—blood streaming from a wound in his thigh. He wasn’t dead, but Nicolò had seen enough blood and battle to know that he soon would be. 

There was no time to watch, however—three others still stood, still swung their swords at Nicolò with violent passion, incited now by the fall of two of their comrades. Nicolò’s blade had a longer reach than theirs, and he used it as much as possible. He caught two swords on one parry, he pushed them away yet still within his own reach. The one thing he couldn’t do was step back, but an inability to give ground just made him fight _harder._

Still, he was woefully outnumbered, and these men were clearly seasoned warriors. When the three coordinated their attacks, every one of their swords coming at him at once, Nicolò knew that there would be no avoiding it. 

Nicolò could have ducked to the side—but doing so would have caused him to spin away from the still unmoving body behind him, and even lost to the haze of battle that was not something that he was willing to allow. So he parried the sword that was falling toward his head, and allowed the other two to strike. 

One cut into his left side, stopped from gutting him only as the thin blade caught on the bone of his hip. The other hit his right arm, his _sword arm,_ cutting deep into his bicep and tearing both skin and muscle. 

Nicolò cried out in pain, but he managed to keep his footing. The mercenaries paused, as if thinking they had won a victory—and with a surge of effort Nicolò lurched forward, burying his blade in the man before him. 

Blood gurgled at the man’s still curved smile. Then, he fell, sliding from Nicolò’s blade with a very final groan. 

Tight fingers loosened and Nicolò’s right arm hung limply at his side, the pain almost enough to topple him over. He had been fighting with both hands on his hilt, but now he swapped to one. The weapon felt gangly and unwieldy in his left hand, but he would have to make do—until he healed, his right arm was now useless. Even the thought of lifting his sword with it brought a slew of pain up his shoulder, arcing across every bone in his body. 

His left side was barely any better, every twist of his body causing him to grit his teeth. He could barely keep up with the blows from the two men, unable to get in a single attack of his own as he focused entirely on defence. His arm burned, his side screamed, his whole body was crying out for rest—

But the only rest for him here would come with either death or victory, and only one of those outcomes was currently acceptable. 

He couldn’t allow himself to fall, he couldn’t let these men go free. Not when they would likely leave with all of his and Yusuf’s belongings. Not when they had caused Yusuf to fall—

Yusuf, who still wasn’t moving, who did not even twitch when Nicolò was pushed so far back by the onslaught of his two attackers that his foot slid into Yusuf’s side. 

Nicolò grit his teeth, and tried to push harder. He only needed to buy himself time. He knew he was outmatched, knew that in any ordinary world he would already be beaten—but he was far from ordinary, and he would not _allow_ himself to be beaten. 

He might be less skilled, and he might only be one man. But every wound to his enemies would stay a wound, while everything he suffered needed only a few moments to _heal—_

He hardly took stock of the moment his arm was well enough, merely catching the end of a barely-blocked parry with his right hand, the hilt slamming into his palm. Nicolò grinned toothily at the lack of pain, then adjusted his grip and attacked with his preferred method once more. One of the men didn’t notice, but the other’s eyes widened in shock—

And it was then that Nicolò finally found his opening, ducking under the strike of one man and slashing at the legs of the other. The man fell to his knees, and Nicolò stepped around him—bringing up his sword over the man’s head to catch a blow from the one still standing. He then twisted his wrists, flicked the attacker’s sword away, and brought his own down in a savage point so that the blade sank deep into the kneeling man’s left shoulder, straight down into the lungs and heart. 

The remaining mercenary let out a broken cry as the last of his comrades fell for good, rushing forward without thought—

And it was an easy matter for Nicolò to release his sword, unsheath the knife at his hip, and thrust it upward into the lunging man’s throat.

Nicolò’s fingers curled tightly around the slippery hilt of his knife, his chest heaving with the exertion of battle as he half considered the bodies before him. Listening. _Hoping._

His fingers flexed, his heart hammered fiercely in his chest—

And when first he heard a sound, Nicolò’s breath caught. But the movement wasn’t behind him—one of the men he’d fought was still alive. 

It was the one he had stabbed in the thigh, near the start of the fight. There was blood around him, his skin almost grey with the loss of it, but his hands were still clamped around the wound and he was not dying as fast as he should. As fast as Nicolò had seen others die of wounds in similar places. 

Slowly, Nicolò stepped nearer, feeling his expression close off to something cold. 

The man spat a word that Nicolò _did_ recognise from when he and Yusuf had first met. Yusuf hadn’t used it in a long time, and Nicolò did not know the exact meaning. He had never cared to ask. But he could guess.

Not that it mattered—for just like his comrades, the man died on the edge of Nicolò’s blade. The bloodied steel sliced easily across his throat, silencing his curses to a choke as he died with a mouth full of blood. 

But Nicolò didn’t watch the man breathe his last, just as he hadn’t truly watched the others. He stepped away from the twitching corpse, his eyes finally flashing toward the sight he didn’t want to see, his gaze drawn unbidden.

For the first time since the start of the fight, Nicolò felt like he was frozen, struck down more surely than by any sword. For although it should not be possible, not by the rules of the world Nicolò had lived in for almost a year—

Yusuf lay... _still._

Nicolò felt a flash of fear in his gut, a pained spark that he hadn’t allowed himself to consider until the fight was done. 

His own pain was already waning, his arm and side already entirely healed—but the lance that cut through him with every breath only dug deeper and deeper. 

It felt like his heart was lodged in his throat, risen from his chest to prevent his words. Breathing was difficult, and his body ached as his knees hit the wet dirt at Yusuf’s side, his knife falling from limp fingers. 

Open brown eyes reflected the light of the setting sun, and the fingers that had pressed either side of the sword in his gut lay unmoving upon Yusuf’s bloody tunic. There was a fly on the tip of Yusuf’s nose, garnering not even a single twitch—and Nicolò flicked a hand above it with almost as much desperation as when he had killed the men. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò choked, the first word he managed to push past his trembling lips. “Wake up.” 

He couldn’t have said what he had expected to happen, but he certainly knew what he’d hoped. Every time they had fallen in the past, they had always woken within minutes. But neither of them had died in quite some time, and it had been far longer than mere minutes now—

The fear clawed at him with more force than he could bear.

“Yusuf!” he called. “Wake up, _please!”_ Never had there been a moment where he had wished to speak Arabic with more fierceness, the absent thought that perhaps Yusuf’s mother tongue might work better than his own Zeneize cutting through his fear.

In his desperation he reached for Yusuf’s tunic, tugging first at the fabric and then at Yusuf’s shoulder. He continued to call his friend’s name, continued to cry and beg and _plead,_ uncaring of the tears that bubbled like acid over his skin. 

He refused to believe that this was it, that this was the end—that after the _many_ times they had killed each other, it was only when Yusuf _saved_ him that he finally fell. 

It wasn’t _fair._ Between the two of them, Yusuf was by far the one who deserved to live on, his bright kindness and shining smile enough to bring joy to an entire continent. No—losing Yusuf would cast a shadow not only across the Mediterranean, but across the whole _world—_

And Nicolò wasn’t sure if he himself would survive it. 

His voice was painful but Nicolò didn’t care. He would sit at Yusuf’s side for a century if need be, calling his name until God understood that the world needed Yusuf, that _Nicolò—_

“I need you,” Nicolò whispered, his hands sliding down across Yusuf’s chest, searching for a heartbeat that was not there.

 _Please._

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, his arms going limp—

And his fingers hit something slimy—and then something hard. 

Nicolò sat up as he realised, a thousand thoughts consolidating into one. His fingers closed around the sword which remained in Yusuf’s stomach, holding tight, uncaring that the blade was keen-edged and sliced his skin, his own blood mingling with Yusuf’s. He pulled sharply, using what felt like the last of his strength—then he flung the blade away. He didn’t care where it fell, he only wanted it _gone._

Never once did his gaze leave Yusuf, never once shifting away from those unseeing brown eyes. He lifted one trembling hand and pressed it to Yusuf’s cheek, leaving a red mark. 

Nicolò tried to breathe. He tried to wait, to hold on to what little hope he still had left. The sword had been stopping the healing, had been stopping Yusuf from waking. That had to be it, it _had to be,_ because if Yusuf stayed dead, then—

Then—

Nicolò leaned down, pressing his forehead to Yusuf’s bloody chest in a final, desperate plea. 

“Please, Yusuf,” Nicolò choked. “I can’t do this without you.” 

There were a few broken moments where Nicolò’s quiet sobs were the only sound—but then Yusuf’s eyes flew open, his breath pulling in with a gasp of air and the broken whisper of a name.

“Nicolò?”

Nicolò felt something akin to a wave crashing over him—a fierce physical shock; a shudder; a breathless, desperate _ache._ He bent forward and collapsed across Yusuf, pressing their foreheads together so that he might feel Yusuf’s breath over his own skin. 

_“Yusuf,”_ Nicolò said, his voice as hoarse as the howl of a storm. 

Yusuf’s first answer was a shudder, one hand curling through the hair at the back of Nicolò’s head, the other tracing the blood staining his arm.

“You’re all right,” Yusuf breathed. His Zeneize was far more advanced than Nicolò’s Arabic, and he had no problem with it despite the ordeal he’d just arisen from. “You killed them?”

Nicolò wasn’t sure that he knew how to answer that last question, despite the truth written around them in blood and bodies. His mind was caught on the first thing Yusuf had said, and he spoke his confusion as he cupped Yusuf’s cheek once again. 

“ _I’m_ all right?” Nicolò asked. “Yusuf you… you jumped in front of me. You _died_ for me.”

“Yes,” Yusuf replied. He sounded almost amused, and Nicolò could have cursed him for it. “It seems that I did.” 

“You should not have done that,” Nicolò replied, perhaps in a tone that was a little harsher than he meant it to be.

Yusuf tilted his head, the action causing his cheek to lean into Nicolò’s palm. Unbidden, Nicolò’s thumb traced the soft line of his beard—and when Yusuf spoke, it was _his_ turn to lace his voice with an echo of confusion. 

“Why not?”

A harsh laugh cut through Nicolò’s throat, jagged and broken. “They wanted to kill me because they believed me to be a crusader,” Nicolò said. “Yusuf, that’s exactly what I _am.”_

“Not anymore—”

“That doesn’t change what I’ve done,” Nicolò replied. He forced himself to move back. As much as his body yearned to remain near Yusuf, to continue to have the reassurance that Yusuf still breathed, Nicolò could no longer allow himself the privilege of touching. He didn’t deserve it, not after the times he’d broken that skin himself. 

“What you’ve done is fought to save me,” Yusuf corrected—though Nicolò still heard himself wince. His reaction only seemed to urge Yusuf on, however, and the other man pushed himself up to sitting as he continued. “What you’ve done over these months is show me that you’re not who I thought you were, that you’re kind and noble and _good._ That you’re the kind of person to be respected, to be—to spend time with. The kind of person who I want at my side, no matter what the rest of the world thinks of us. What you’ve _done,”_ Yusuf finished, his voice turning quiet, “is become my closest friend.” 

Nicolò felt something crack inside his heart, and he forced himself to clear his throat. “But I killed these men. All of them. If they had not seen me, you and they might have been able to share a fire—”

“But they did see you. And they did not give you a chance.”

“With reason.”

“Perhaps. But that does not change the fact that I would die a thousand times, or fight a thousand men for you, Nicolò, just as you… have proven you would for me.” Yusuf’s gaze flickered to the side, but did not linger on the bloodshed. “You killed them, because _they killed me.”_

“Yes,” Nicolò said. “And so have I. I’ve killed you, and I...”

 _I will never forgive myself._ Nicolò didn’t say it aloud, but he knew that Yusuf likely knew what he would have said anyway. 

Yusuf’s expression was soft, and he leaned forward. Despite knowing that Yusuf was healed, Nicolò couldn’t help but instinctively shift to meet him, the memory of the vicious wound still fresh in his mind. Yusuf caught him as they came together, his hands curling either side of Nicolò’s jaw. 

“You’re right, you have killed me,” Yusuf said. “But since then, you’ve also done so much more. Nicolò, you know that when we met I could not stand you, but you grew on me. At first rather like a wart growing between two toes, I will admit. But now… you have grown to be a part of me, part of my very soul. In a way, you still kill me, but you kill me in your smiles, in your laughter, in your kindness and your hope. You kill me when you touch my hand, or when you make us food even though you are tired enough to sleep on your feet. You kill me, for every one of those moments makes my heart stop—and if _that_ is not a death, then I do not think I have ever died at all.” 

Once again Nicolò felt like he couldn’t breathe—but this time, rather than drowning, he felt like he had climbed a mountain too high. His head felt light, and the tips of his fingers refused to remain steady as they hovered just shy of touching Joe’s cheek. All thoughts from before had fled, replaced with witless shock, daring hope. 

“What are you saying?” Nicolò asked, his voice as quiet as his heart was loud. 

“If you cannot work that out, ya amar, ya rouhi, _hayati,_ then I am afraid you must not be as intelligent as I have come to believe.” Despite his words, his smile was as calm as a morning breeze, and Nicolò found himself mirroring Yusuf as he leaned forward further still.

“Perhaps I am just confused,” Nicolò said, “as to why someone who can weave words together like you would wish to waste them on someone like me.”

“It is not a waste, hayati. Nothing about you could be a waste, but for time spent away from your side. And perhaps… speaking words at all when we could be doing something else entirely.” 

Nicolò wanted to reply, but as he parted his lips to do so his words were intercepted by the press of a sweet kiss, all thoughts flying to nothing. His hands slid over Yusuf’s jaw to bury into his hair, his breathless whimper swallowed by the slide of softest lips. Yusuf was still cupping his face, gently, as if he were something to be treasured, and when they pulled apart all traces of worry and concern were gone. 

“You’ve have become everything to me,” Yusuf said, voice just as gentle as his touch. “I took that blow for you because seeing you hurt brings me pain, and if I could keep all the world’s hurts from you—I would do it in a heartbeat.” 

Nicolò held on to the moment of silence, just taking in the fact that this man, this gentle, radiant, _beautiful_ man had decided _he_ was the one he wanted to be with. 

“It is the same for me,” Nicolò whispered, remembering his own spiral of fear. “When you were killed, and then when I thought that you would not wake…” 

“I will not leave you,” Yusuf said—and the words sounded no less than a vow, sealed with a press of his palm to Nicolò’s heart. “I have not before, and I will not now. And certainly not for something that you did in the past. I _know_ you, Nicolò. I’ve seen who you are. And I want to be with you for the rest of however long we have.” 

Nicolò let out a sigh as Yusuf kissed him again. This time, their arms slid around each other until they were pressed very close, every part of their bodies entwined. 

It did not matter that the ground they sat upon was still soaked with blood, nor that the men Nicolò had slain lay nearby. Later, they would wash in the stream, find a new place to camp. They would curl together to sleep, content in each other’s arms in a way that they had never been before. But for now, they were content to hold each other, to breathe and to kiss and to learn everything they had just managed to find—but which may well have been there from the very beginning. 

“I know that you cannot forgive yourself for how we met,” Yusuf whispered, his lips brushing the line of Nicolò’s jaw. “But you deserve happiness. And as you suffered to see me hurt, so do I suffer. You are hurting yourself, and so you’re hurting me. Forgive yourself, Nicolò, as I have forgiven you.”

“You’re not fighting fair,” Nicolò groaned. 

“A fight implies that either side could win. And this, Nicolò… this is not a fight.” 

Nicolò wasn’t sure whether he could manage all that Yusuf was asking of him, for hurting the man he had come to love was something that Nicolò would never be able to forgive, even if – perhaps, especially if – he was the one to swing the sword. 

Forgiveness was difficult, but that—that was not all Yusuf had asked for. And as he moved to kiss Yusuf again, as their lips slid together in a rhythm too easily mastered to be anything other than destined, Nicolò thought that for _happiness_ , maybe—

Maybe love was a good place to start. 


End file.
